POND MUSIC 39 



purpose across the lawn and over the sunken wall, as 

 though it had been a mere step instead of a precipice 

 five feet deep. And a third passed in front of the 

 paddock-gate without diverging a hair's-breadth when 

 it swung close over its head to let us through. 



They are all making for the pond in which two days 

 ago there was no evidence whatever that the day of 

 the frogs' carnival was at hand. The pond-weed and 

 the horn-wort were pushing up, but were still far from 

 the top, some boatman-beetles and a water-scorpion 

 were moving on the clear gravel near the edge, and 

 two or three pairs of newts were floating lazily over 

 the deeper spaces. But they all looked as though 

 they could feel the keen north-easter that chilled us 

 land animals, and as though they regretted having 

 got up so early. 



To-day there is no room anywhere for newts or 

 water-beetles. The air is full of a deep, mellow hum 

 that matches spring sunshine as only that sound can, 

 and it comes unmistakably from the pond. We all 

 know the vibrant cooing of the house-pigeon, and now 

 and then we learn how grand is the chorus of thirty or 

 forty of them throbbing it out together, as they and 

 their consorts take the sun on the best slope of the 

 roof, or on some warm grass plot. The frogs' chorus 

 is much the same. It is also produced in the same 

 way from a well-inflated throat and of course 

 addressed to the same theme. 



A cautious approach reveals the whole surface of the 

 water a mass of snow-white bubbles, the inflated throats 

 of the performers. " Croon, croon, croo-oon " goes the 

 song, each throat's contribution being but slight in 

 volume or continuation, but the whole rising to an 



